When I'm Sixty Four
by allie.and.gabana
Summary: A short story with Harry asking Hermione questions, borrowing lyrics from the Beatles.


A/N: Cute little thing I thought of while listening to "When I'm Sixty-Four" by the Beatles. I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I own the song rights. Someone does, but hell if I know! Enjoy :)

* * *

"When I get older, loosing my hair, many years from now, will you still be sending me a valentine, birthday greeting, bottle of wine?" Harry asked Hermione as they were eating dinner in their small flat.

"Oh, Harry, be quiet," Hermione replied, flicking a few peas at him off of her fork.

"If I'd been out 'til quarter to three, would you lock the door?" Harry pressed on, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I'd just build a fort around the door, so when you walked in, you'd walk into a brick wall instead," Hermione shot back.

"Will you still need me; will you still feed me, when I'm sixty four?" Harry continued, ignoring her remarks.

"I'll need you as much as I'll need a stomach ulcer," Hermione said. "And I think I shouldn't feed anyone, as I don't want to go to prison for death by poisoning."

"You'll be older too … and if you say the word, I could stay with you," Harry kept on going.

"Thanks, I'm glad that you will stay with me because I asked, and because I'm older," Hermione huffed. "Which means you are implying I'll be unwanted."

"I could be handy, mending a fuse, when you lights have gone!" Harry exclaimed, jumping up from the table.

"Is that supposed to have some sexual connotation?!" Hermione screeched, pushing her chair away from the table to bring her dishes to the sink.

"You can knit a sweater by the fireside," Harry came up behind her, and wrapped his arms around her waist and swung her side to side with him. "Sunday morning, go for a ride?"

"I don't knit, and I will not go anywhere near you and a broomstick," Hermione pushed back into him, causing him to stumble, and walked out of the kitchen into the living room. She sat down with a magazine, and began to flip through it.

"Doing the garden, digging the weeds, who could ask for more?" Harry questioned, kneeling in front of her.

"I could ask for so much more," Hermione answered, her face hidden by the magazine. "Do I look like Mrs. Weasley to you? I don't do the garden, or dig up weeds."

"Will you still need me; will you still feed me when I'm sixty four?" Harry repeated, for emphasis.

"I think we discussed this," she responded. "You're about as needed as a runner needing a broken leg."

"Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight," Harry hastily added. "If it's not too dear. We shall scrimp and save!"

"You don't need to scrimp," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "You don't need to save either. We never need to save. Actually, we really need to work on saving little orphan children. Maybe we should rent _them_ cottages in the Isle of Wight."

"Grandchildren on your knee," Harry cooed, patting her knee as he said it. "Vera, Chuck, and Dave."

"Vera is a unique name," Hermione replied as she thought about it. "Chuck and Dave are much to plain through. I would never name my child Chuck or Dave."

"Send me a postcard, drop me a line, stating point of view. Indicate precisely what you mean to say," Harry explained. He put one hand to his chest, and another to his forehead, and pretended to wilt. "Yours sincerely, wasting away!"

"Oh you are not wasting away," Hermione swatted him in the head as she got up from the couch to go get ready for bed.

"Give me your answer, fill in a form; mine forever more!" Harry yelled after her.

Before turning on the shower, she yelled back, "Drop it in the mailbox and I'll get to it soon!"

Harry chuckled, before following her into the bedroom to prepare for sleep.

The next morning, Harry awoke to an empty bed as usual. Hermione was always an earlier riser than him, especially on work days. He stumbled sleepily into the bathroom, and grabbed the toothpaste from inside the medicine cabinet. As he was brushing his teeth, he looked up into the mirror and saw a Post-it hanging perfectly straight and in his vision of sight. It was written in Hermione's perfect penmanship, and read:

"_Will you need me; will you still feed me, when I'm sixty four?  
Honestly dear, you must stop quoting the Beatles. You know they get stuck in my head far too easily. I will now be going around singing their songs, and getting odd looks from all my coworkers, like I'm a bloody mental case. I _know_ you did this on purpose._

_Yours sincerely, wasting away_"


End file.
